Shrapnel
by AshleyBudrick
Summary: What if Robbie hadn't managed to keep his wound a secret? -Alternate Ending-
1. PART 1

PART ONE

Robbie jolted awake in the darkness of the old farmhouse, the cold, damp surroundings of the attic momentarily startling. His dream had been so different - pleasantly different. He had been on the beach, a cold, yet comfortable beach, and yes, Cecilia had been there with him. Holding his hand, to be exact, her delicate fingers intertwined with his as they strolled the shores, running every couple of minutes as the large waves came crashing onto the shore, chasing and grabbing at their feet as they retreated. Besides the sounds of the waves, Cecilia's light laugh and his stronger one mingled in the crisp autumn air. Up on the hill, the cottage just for them, waited for when they would come in, cheeks red from the cold. Water would be boiling on the stove and two tea cups would be sitting on the kitchen table just for them. He had just been following Cecilia up the path to their cottage, when the dream seemed to spiral away, the image of Cecilia in front of him stretched out, like looking in the reverse end of binoculars. He had reached out to her, called her name, but the image faded to black, and the dream ended, leaving him to wake to this setting.

Sitting up, Robbie cursed underneath his breath, looking around the dark room. His two fellow soldiers were still asleep. He hissed in a breath of air as pain shot through his abdomen. He knew, without needing to look, it was the wound in his chest. A piece of bloody shrapnel bedded deep inside him, to be exact. The damned thing often let its presence be known, just like it was doing now.

Robbie ignored it with a grimace, and grabbed his rifle lying next to him and got to his feet quietly. He tiptoed down the stairs from the attic, occasionally creaking a board or two, but he didn't really care at the moment. He went straight outside, where it was nearing sunrise. The farmyard had a quiet, eerie look. It was like he was in a photograph; everything seemed to be a certain shade of grey or black. After taking a few moments to appreciate the slightly beautiful silence, he reached in his front pocket, and pulled out a cigarette and his lighter. He lit up, then tucked the lighter back in his pocket and pulled out another item from his other breast pocket, a more endeared item. A photograph.

The picture was of the cottage, the one Cecilia had given him on the last day he had seen her, the one that had been in his dream - their cottage. He allowed a small smile to come to his lips, as he gazed longingly at the location in the photo. If only if he could be there with her right now, an isolated, peaceful place just for them - away from the violence, away from the bombings, away from the gunfire - away from the war itself.

He sighed, and tucked the photo safely away back into his pocket, and with one last look around the farmyard, he retired back into the barn and up into the attic. He figured he should try and get a couple more hours sleep before they would head out again, so he fumbled his way through the dark to his blanket, but on the way, his boot caught on a board, and with a cry, the floor came rushing up to meet him. He made contact with the wooden floorboards with a loud thump, which echoed throughout the dead silence of attic, succeeding in firing up his wound again, and also waking up Nettle and Mace.

"Jesus Christ!" Nettle's loud obnoxious voice came through the darkness. Rustling could be heard as both he and Mace scrambled to their feet and grabbed their rifles, "Who goes there?"

"Calm down!" Robbie scrambled to his feet too, raising his hands in alarm. He couldn't see that well, but it didn't take him two guesses to figure out that probably both of them had their guns aimed at him, "It's Turner!"

He heard two sighs, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see two dark shapes lower their weapons.

"Jesus, Gov'nor, what the hell are you bloody well doin'?" Nettle demanded, as Robbie – more carefully this time – made his way to his blanket, "We coulda shotcha! Thought you were some bloody German or somethin'…"

"I just went out for some air," Robbie answered calmly, setting down his rifle and lying back down onto his blanket, "Lie down and try and get some sleep. It's at least another hour before sunrise."

Nettle cursed through the darkness, but Robbie heard both him and Mace do as he instructed. They were quiet as soon as they had lain back down, and everything went back to how it had been, the attic once again being engulfed in silence.

Robbie's eyelids were heavy and he was asleep before he could even close them.

----

Robbie entered the stages of semi-consciousness, he could feel a ray of sunlight beating down on his eyelids, but he felt cold. Surprisingly cold, like the morning dampness was seeping right through his uniform. Why was this? The cold hadn't bothered him any other morning... well, it was getting further into the fall, the weather was indeed becoming colder, and the smell of winter was in the air.

That's when Robbie moved his hand up to his chest, and that's when the sudden realization hit him. He wasn't wearing a shirt. What the…

Robbie's eyes shot open, and he instantly got a scare when he saw Nettle and Mace leaning over him. He jumped, and let out a yell, but Nettle and Mace each put a hand on his shoulders.

"Whoa, Gov'nor," Nettle said, "There's nothing wrong, mate. Calm down…"

Robbie looked insanely at him and then to Mace.

"Where's my shi…" he trailed off as he looked down to his chest, and saw his wound clearly exposed. It looked worse than before, there was dried _blood_ all around it and caked to his skin surrounding it. His first instinct was to try and hide it, but as he reached for his shirt, he stopped when he saw the front of it was a dark red.

He made the connection instantly. The fall, his fall must have reopened the wound, and he hadn't been aware and it must have bled during his nap. He looked up to Nettle and Mace, who had obviously seen the wound.

"It's a nasty one," Mace remarked.

"Must have happened when I fell last night," Robbie croaked quickly, but Nettle gave him a daring look that made him take his words back.

"I'm not a fuck'n idiot, Gov'nor," Nettle spat, "You didn't get that last night. I noticed you've been actin' a lil' funny for a while now, and the reasons right in front of my face. Are you stupid? How long were you gonna keep this from us, huh?"

Robbie didn't answer.

"It's infected by the looks of things," Nettle observed, "There's somethin' in there, it'd be my guess, whaddya say, Mace?"

"Shrapnel," Mace nodded.

"I'm fine," Robbie insisted, grabbing his shirt and getting to his feet, but he realized, as he was shrugging on his shirt, he wasn't fine. Whatever the fall did to it, it didn't help. The pain was worse, much worse. It felt like someone was stabbing him, a searing pain tearing through his chest. Robbie had to bit his lip to keep from crying out, but he wasn't able to keep to his feet. He fell to the floor, and when he did, it felt like a hole was ripped through his chest. He let out a yell, throwing his head back and clutching his chest, curling up into a ball.

"Gov'nor!" he heard Nettle yell and his two companion's boots on the wood as they raced to his side. He felt one of them touch his shoulder, but he jerked away, keeping his face down and his eyes clamped shut.

"Don't touch me," he groaned through clenched teeth.

It felt like the shrapnel was burrowing a hole right through him. The impact from the fall, he decided, must have driven it further into his chest. Oh God. The pain unlocked the key to his emotions he had kept balled up inside him all this time, and he started to cry, tears squeezing from his eyes, which he still hadn't opened. He rocked slightly, his body shaking with sobs, and with each movement pain stabbed through him.

He thought of Cecilia in London, which right now seemed so far away. He got an image of her face in his mind and realized with pure determination, he wouldn't let this wound stop him. He wouldn't let it kill him. He had to get home to England, home to Cecilia.

He just had to.

**A/N:** I had originally intended this story to be just a one chapter one-shot, but it seems that it demands more than that. Let me know what you think! Hopefully the continuation will be up soon.


	2. PART 2

PART TWO

Through the pain, Robbie thanked Nettle and Mace softly through clenched teeth as they offered to help him up off the cold, rough wood of the attic floor. He was ashamed for having let loose his emotions in front of them, but even as they eased him back onto the scratchy blanket, he also felt a slight determination – a motivation to get back to Cecilia.

Maybe keeping the shrapnel wound from his two fellow soldiers was a worse idea than he thought, after all, they could possibly help him. Possibly. He knew that they had little or no medical skills for dressing a wound, and Robbie mentally went back to the pages of his medical books in his room back in England, trying to block out the scorching pain from his wound and try his best to remember what would be best to try and treat the bastardly thing.

"As you prob'ly know, Guv'nor, we can't do much to help ya," Nettle blabbered on, looking at Robbie with almost a frightened expression as one would look at a wounded and dying animal, "Wrappin' it up n' hopin' fer the best would be the best bet right now, until we get to the beaches."

Robbie nodded, forcing back a grimace.

"Then look around for the cleanest rag or cloth you can find," he told them as he glanced down to his wound, which looked worse than it had before, "It'll have to do until then."

Nettle and Mace nodded – and seemed content to be able to try and help in some way. They both got to their feet and began puttering around the attic, looking in every corner and crevice. Robbie let out a sigh and let himself relax – or get as close as possible to a supposed relaxation, although he found it was a nearly impossible feat. The shrapnel bedded deep inside of him smarted every few seconds, not about to let itself be forgotten.

He stared up into the rafters of the attic, letting his mind wander towards forming an image of Cecilia in his mind. He truly missed her – the short time that he had been able to see her in London, to meet her for tea, had hardly been long enough. If he had his way, he would be with her every moment of every waking day, but like a lot of things, it was impossible.

Impossible, no thanks to Briony, the foolish child who had thought she understood things she clearly did not. Briony, who had accused him of the unthinkable – assaulting Lola, how _horrid_ an accusation – but the evidence against him had been enough to satisfy. He felt deep loathing for the girl – hard to believe she was Cecilia's sister. Briony had always been creative, composing things left and right, and that was the problem, she had an imagination that she allowed to wander, allowed to conjure up a ridiculous tale based on her walking into the library and witnessing he and Cecilia in an act she didn't understand, didn't comprehend – and then wildly connecting it to an event she supposedly saw "plain as day" when it was the black of night.

Robbie wasn't sure who exactly had assaulted Lola that night, but he knew that it wasn't him. But he had been the one convicted, the one handcuffed and dragged away with the name "rapist" tattooed on him whilst the whole Tallis family – a family he considered almost his own – watching with disgust and resentment, feeling of utter betrayal ultimately overwhelming them.

Everyone, except for Cecilia, and his dear mother who had nearly been arrested herself for beating on the police car with her umbrella. Cecilia and his mother were the only ones who knew the truth – knew him too well to believe such an accusation, even if he was supposedly proved guilty of the unspeakable crime.

But there wasn't much he could do about it now. He'd been tried, convicted, and given a choice, jail, or war. At the moment, Robbie considered sitting in a cold and miserable jail cell might be a little bit better than this, considering what he had been subjected to so far, the images that he had seen – that now were permanently etched into his skull. The leg in the tree, perhaps – that was one that was particularly haunting. Just the thought of it now made Robbie shiver.

"Got somethin', Guv'nor," Mace announced, and Robbie looked over to see the tall man holding up a checkered piece of cloth. Recognizing it, he realized it was the cloth that had been in the basket of food the two French men had brought them. It could be worse.

"Give it to me," Robbie waved him over quickly, forcing himself into a sitting position. Mace knelt down and handed him the cloth, and Robbie quickly tore it into a strip. Shrugging off his shirt, he managed to wrap it around himself, tying it in a knot right over the wound itself to apply pressure to keep it from bleeding.

"Din' you say that you's wanted to become a doctor, Guv?" Nettle questioned as he watched Robbie take the remaining cloth and weave it around the knot for extra cushioning.

"I did, yes," Robbie answered, gritting his teeth as he felt the wound protest to the care.

"How bout now?"

"I don't know," Robbie took a deep breath, allowing the pain to subside before he pulled on his shirt and began buttoning it up, "All I want to do is to make it off the beach, and get home…"

_And see Cecilia, _he thought.

"Got's an idea, Guv'nor," Nettle said, "The boys on the beaches, they don't give a fuck bout guys like me and Mace, but you, but you, Guv, with your wound – well, it's your ticket outa here! Only makes sense the wounded would be their first priority, eh?"

Robbie looked at him thoughtfully. Nettle was probably right. He slowly nodded.

"Got another idea, too," Nettle added, looking to Mace, "We make him a gurney, y'know, carry 'im the rest o' way, so he don't hurt 'imself anymore – and then they'll really pay attention to him. And it ain't really lyin', so to speak. Guv'nor's wounded, probably can walk, but we just don' wanna take the fuckin' risk, right?" Mace nodded agreeably, and Nettle looked quickly to Robbie, "You don' wanna make things worse, right?" he repeated.

"Right." Robbie answered, easing himself back down onto the makeshift bed. He exhaled deeply. All of a sudden, things didn't seem so horribly negative. He remembered it wasn't an hour ago that he'd gone out for a smoke in the early morning, gazing out upon the farm land with thoughts of Cecilia and wondering when he would see her again, not an hour ago he'd tripped and aggravated the wound – and things had been so negative. However, now, things could possibly change.

As Nettle and Mace headed downstairs to begin looking for supplies to make the gurney, Robbie gently pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket. It wasn't broken, that was good. Lighting it quickly and tucking the lighter back into the pocket, Robbie took a long drag on the cigarette – the smoke calming him. Dreamily, he once again withdrew the picture of the cottage, and held it up to gaze upon. There was a greater possibility for his survival, for his returning home. Perhaps he _could _get out of here. Perhaps he _could _see Cecilia.Perhaps the possibility of that little cottage wasn't so much of a dream after all.

--

**A/N: **Sorry for keeping all you followers waiting, it's just that I wanted to finish another story I had on the go. Now that it's done, I will be able to work on this one – estimates right now probably say it'll have six parts at the most, although it is possible I could wrap it up in less. I hope you've all enjoyed the long-awaited installment. - AB


End file.
